Eye to Eye
by Piercerofshadows
Summary: A cryptid hunter wants to meet Samara.


Eye to Eye

Authors note: Hey I'm alive. This one's a little odd, but the idea kept me awake one night, so here it is.

Eye to Eye

A tv. A Sony Trinitron, one of the old box televisions. That, the small wooden nightstand it sat on, and the ominous red stains on the walls were the only decorations in the room, and without them, there would have been no personality whatsoever. The tv was unplugged, as there was no electricity in the building, but it didn't really matter. After all, she never sleeps.

It was an abandoned hotel, a once thriving rest stop, where now only the homeless spent their nights. The wallpaper had long since rotted away, leaving only a sliver here and there, a ceiling fan had once hung above and to the right of the television set, but that had long been snatched away. Now only loose cabling remained.

A man paced back and forth several feet from the tv, occasionally checking his watch. Dressed in a white polo with a pocket covered khaki vest and khaki shorts, it was plain to see that he most of his time exploring the outdoors, contrary to his current surroundings. His shoes, leather boots caked in mud, corroborated this, leaving a brown residue one the ground as he paced.

His face was quite plain – brown eyes, short nose, and utterly hairless save his thick eyebrows. What was remarkable was the life and energy that you could see on his face, which particularly shined through in his eyes. Countless adventures come and gone, friendships made and utterly destroyed, some nights in lavish hotels and some days in a ditch on the side of the road. Truly a life lived following one's heart, living without regrets.

Checking his watch once again, he ceased his pacing and looked at the tv. "Midnight," John Carpin sighed," so close and yet so far." It didn't help that the room utterly reeked, really forcing you to question what those stains were. But that was the least of his worries. Reaching into a small tan tote bag, he pulled out a hand mirror. "I wonder if I look alright," he wondered aloud, displaying vanity unbecoming of an experienced cryptid hunter such as himself. But considering he was about to meet his big break, his want for a good first impression was understandable.

A ghostly urban legend was his current target. After you watch a cursed video tape, you get a phone call. "Seven days", a little girl would say. And sure enough, a week later, the reaper would be at your doorstep. However, no one quite knew how the victims died, but John had seen the coroner's report, and it was quite gruesome.

He had actually been unconvinced about the whole thing, figuring that the whole affair was likely another dead end that wouldn't lead to any fame or fortune. But after hearing the story of Rachel Keller, it became apparent that there was at least some substance to the myth. She claimed that a little girl named Samara was the cause of everything. After her hard life and untimely death at the hands of her mother, she became an ill-tempered spirit seeking revenge of some sort, all through a video tape. It all sounded quite bizarre, but Rachel did have a fair amount of evidence to support her claim, and even though none of it was indisputable, it was enough to peak his interest.

When he had first watched the video tape, he didn't think much of it. Some college kids with a decent budget put together a small expressionist horror piece, then released it on the world. The phone call was quite convincing, but there was always the possibility that Rachel or some wackjob with a lot of time on their hands had called him. So, John began to do some research of his own, to try and determine the validity of the myth.

Then the visions started.

The horrible things that he saw in his head, even with his myriad of experiences hunting mythos, still gave him the chills. His nails being torn off, drowning in a shallow pool of stagnant water, centipedes crawling in his ear and coming out his nose. It always felt so real. So real that he sometimes had difficulty discerning the visions from reality.

After seven long, uncomfortable days, he had finally arrived here, the meeting with the ghost – or so he hoped. No one knew what happened when the seven days were up. But, as long as whatever came listened to reason, everything would be fine. However, things could easily go badly. At the thought, he patted the magnum at his waist. "I'm gonna make it out of this," he boldly stated. "There's nothing I can't handle."

 _Drip, drop._

John turned towards the tv to find a pool of water rapidly forming around the legs of the nightstand, originating from the cracks and crevices in the old television set. Suddenly, static appeared on the unpowered screen, and the empty room was filled with a harsh crackling sound and a slightly off-white tint. As John backed away from the rapidly expanding pool of water, he was distinctly aware of the drop extreme drop in temperature.

Then, the screen changed. It was now a not-so-picturesque scene of a forest clearing with a cobblestone well in the center of view. A light eerie mist shrouded the whole area in bluish gray, robbing the environment of all vibrancy. John recognized the scene from the video tape, but this time it felt far more sinister.

A hand reached out from inside the well to grab onto the ledge. It pulled up the body of a small girl, who deftly climbed out of the well. Her face was completely covered in a curtain of long, frizzy black hair, and she was clothed in a dirty white dress. Completely out of the well, the little girl steadily walked towards the camera.

Once she was close enough that the entire shot was obscured by her head, much to John's surprise, a hand reached out of the tv. The little girl pulled herself out of the tv and crawled on all fours until she was completely free, at which point she stood at attention. Now that she was closer, the cryptid hunter could get a better view, and what a sight she was. She was soaking wet, and all the skin that was visible was badly deformed, presumably by water. Her arms and legs had turned an ashen grayish blue, and shone like fish skin, while the major arteries in her arms had become quite prominent. Extreme wrinkles had formed on her hands and feet, and most of her fingernails were gone. Her entire face was still obscured by her damp black hair, and because of this and her lack of body language, her thoughts and emotions completely unreadable.

Slowly, she started to walk towards John.

"Samara, please wait a moment." At the sound of her name, she stopped moving entirely. "This is the moment I have been waiting for my whole life, and I would rather not rush it."

Pulling a camera out of one of his vest pockets, he started to take pictures: of Samara, the tv, and the room. "You are the big break that is going to make everyone start taking me seriously. If I, John Carpin, tell the story of you, Samara Morgan, and at the same time single-handedly prove the existence of ghosts, we will both be famous. People will finally listen to what I have to say, and you won't have to play this little game of yours anymore." John extended his hand towards the apparition. "Whaddaya say?"

Samara, still dripping all over the floor, remained unmoved.

Retracting his hand, John stuffed the camera back into his pocket. "I understand, after all that has happened you must be very upset. But don't want to tell your story? It's too late for justice to be had, but it's not too late for your voice to be heard, and to have everything you have ever dreamed of. Maybe once all this is over, you can even pass on to the next life and find some real happiness. So let's do this.?"

Once more, there was no reaction from the spirit.

John shook his head, shouldering his tote bag. "Fine, have it your way, but remember, it's not too late to partner up. I trust you will make the smart choice." With that he made his way to the door.

A few steps from the door, Samara suddenly appeared before him. "What do you think you are doing? I'm trying to help you!", he said, grabbing his revolver from its holster, the metal cool to the touch.

Samara, unphased by the firearm, raised her head, causing her hair to part and unveil her face. Horribly pale, unhealthy skin covered in dirt practically shone in the darkness in a mask of rage. Damaged by water, creases had formed on her once youthful face along her large nose, forehead, and on her neck. Many strands of loose, unkempt hair continued to block a complete view of her face, but what was hidden was probably better off that way.

The worst part was her eyes. They had sunken in, and inch long bruise-like bags had formed under each of them. Nearly all color was gone, leaving a visage of a mist of unfathomable depth and water so horrid, a sip would mean certain death. Inside, all that could be seen was limitless anger and despair, stemming from unspeakable torment.

Staring directly into her eyes, John felt fear for the first time. Not the paltry emotion he had once associated with it, but true, unadulterated, mind-shattering fear. His primitive instincts told him to run, but his body just wouldn't listen to him, and even if it had, there was nowhere to go. Shaking uncontrollably, he dropped the gun and lost control of his bladder.

Finally, she spoke. Not in the pleasant voice he had heard over the phone seven days prior, but in a raspy voice filter through God knows what. "I'm sorry, but it won't stop."

Authors note: Thank you so much for giving this a read. I hope you enjoyed this departure from my usual Bleach stuff. If you did, or even if you didn't, leave a review or send a private message. I always enjoy feedback.

I have had this other thing planned to write for about a year now, but I keep overscheduling my life. However, I think I might get started on it before summer is over (hopefully). Until I get to that though, I wish you all the best.

\- Piercer_of_Shadows


End file.
